


The Same

by Silverskin



Category: Original Work
Genre: American Football, Anal Fingering, Anal Fisting, Anal Play, M/M, Prostate Massage, Prostate Milking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:55:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23029699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silverskin/pseuds/Silverskin
Summary: A young, straight athlete is introduced to a new and unusual therapy.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 112





	The Same

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick one this, enjoyed writing it.

He was an athlete, with an athlete's mentality.

Noble. 

Dedicated. 

Fiercely Masculine. 

Supremely self-confident, not a shred of arrogance.

Jet-black Superman hair. 

Laser-cut All-American looks. 

Tall. 

Ripped.

A full, natural, seam-bursting bubble.

His body the dictionary definition of the word “thick”.

The team bull.

A real NFL up-and-comer.

But he’d taken a knock during a game. 

Aches and pains deep in his muscle-stacked hips.

The bruising had faded, but the nerves there wouldn’t settle.

Plagued him when he played.

Injections. 

Thermal gels. 

Ultrasound therapy.

Nothing worked.

_“Rectal Wall Massage”_

When the physio suggested it, it didn’t shock him.

He was wired to push every boundary. 

Disregard the norms. 

Accept things normal men couldn’t.

If that’s what it took to win.

The “yes sir” came without a flicker.

He’d been prodded, probed and tested since forever.

What’s one more therapy?

Like the ice baths, the cryo-chamber, the acupuncture.

The same.

One that could put him right.

No fear.

First Pre-game warm-up. 

Massage room locked.

_“Leave your jock on”_

Bent over the end of the massage table. 

Propped up on his elbows.

Strapped ass out.

Huge legs spread and locked.

A gloved hand lubed his rear.

Two fingers inside him.

Careful and professional. 

Lips pursed, eyebrows creased with self-control.

_Take It_

Slow, rubbing strokes. 

His breath catching.

He’d get used to it.

His body was a machine.

To be engineered. 

Worked on.

Remade.

It helped a little.

Dulled the aches.

He played better.

But it didn’t last.

_“Let’s go more intense, more aggressive.”_

A determined stare with a determined nod.

Every pre-game now.

Two pairs of fingers. 

Both hands.

Working his chute on either side.

Teeth clenched.

Grunting and gasping.

Stacked shoulders buckling.

Thick, tight-end thighs quaking.

Bull-glutes twitched, but he'd never complain. 

Never show weakness. 

He'd push through it like a man.

Ignore the dark patch growing on his white jock pouch.

The burn killed the pain.

It was helping him.

His form was on the rise.

Sceptical commentators coming around.

This was therapy, nothing more. 

He needed it.

Before every game now, and after.

Every training session too. 

His body getting used to it.

The physio able to go harder.

Deeper.

Work his whole hand in there. 

Teammates ignoring the muffled groans from behind the door.

The same sounds they made in there, with a different cause.

That strong, determined, helping fist. 

Relentlessly fixing him. 

Putting his body right. 

Making him strong.

This was part of his regiment now.

Like the hammer curls, the dead lifts, the battle ropes.

The same. 

He tore through workouts now.

Couldn’t get to the physio table fast enough. 

Keen to get what his body needed.

Extra sessions at home too.

His girl tapping at her phone next door, ignoring the noise. 

A roaring, low and long into the padded table.

Drooling onto its shiny black skin.

Fist pumping hard and deep.

Eyes closed. 

Counting the helping thrusts.

Positive endorphins washing through his brain.

Lip curling up at the corner.

Veins popping on his thick-chorded neck.

Knuckles grinding that spot over and over.

Filling his blood with fire.

Giving him power.

It kept him pumped during games. 

He was smashing league records now.

A Testosterone-fuelled sports muscle-god blasting through all opposition.

As unstoppable as that fist.

His secret weapon.

Grinding into him. 

Working him. 

Pushing him on.

The pain was gone now.

Hadn’t felt it in months.

Best not to stop though.

Risk a recurrence.

He needed it.

The Precum-drenched jockstrap?

The raging, untouched hard-ons?

Cum-heavy balls and a warm buzzing in his chute for hours after?

All natural bodily reactions.

Nothing weird.

All just signs it was making him stronger.

Like the new Super-Bowl ring on his finger.

And the prostate orgasm filling yet another jock.

_The Same._


End file.
